


Go Back

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (canonical), Aftermath of Mr. Ceiling, Angst, Crying, Disassociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Philosophical Discussion, Questioning Reality, Set sometime in japan, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23083906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: “Mr. Ceiling got it wrong the first time,” Hamid says calmly, and Zolf’s blood runs cold like water in the deep sea. “It made everything too perfect. So this time around it must’ve done the opposite.”“Hamid,” Zolf says. “We’re not in another illusion.”“We don’t know that.”“Yeah,” says Zolf. “We do.”“Well actually,” says Cel, “that’s a very interesting philosophical question.”
Relationships: Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu, Zolf Smith & Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu & Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom
Comments: 16
Kudos: 92





	Go Back

**Author's Note:**

> I really was intending to write fluff—in fact, this fic was written at the bottom of a document where I was trying to plan out a happy modern AU. But y’know what, it’s angst time, and apparently me taking yet another angle at themes I've been writing before.
> 
> Inspired by a conversation somewhere where Bryn pointed out that Hamid doesn’t trust anything after Mr. Ceiling. And Alex has promised not to pull the same trick, but HAMID doesn't know that. 
> 
> Also, just, general feelings about doubt. 
> 
> CONTENT NOTE: This deals with characters questioning reality and kinda disassociating so treat with appropriate caution.

“We need to go back to Paris,” Hamid says quietly. 

Zolf looks up from the page of notes he’s been scowling over. He’s got locations and leads written out, and that’s not one of them. “We’ve been to Paris,” he says. 

“Could you get me into Paris?” Cel asks. They’re tinkering with something in the corner, an array of components spread around the floor. “Cause I’m not opposed to going, but that _is_ one of the places I’m not allowed, so-” 

Hamid doesn’t acknowledge Zolf or Cel at all. He might not have been talking to either of them, the way he’s curled up on Azu’s lap. But Azu doesn’t know about Paris, and Hamid’s got a blank look on his face that scares Zolf a little, if he’s honest. 

“I’m sorry, Azu,” Hamid says. He reaches up a hand to stroke the side of her face tenderly, but everything about him still looks... off. Too still. “If... if things get reset again, I’ll come find you, I swear. I’ll scour the whole world to be with you again, and things will be better. They’ll have to be.” 

“Hamid,” Azu says, brow furrowing in concern. “What are you talking about?” 

“Yeah, Hamid,” Zolf says, even though he thinks he knows. “What _are_ y’talking about?” He doesn’t like it, but if Hamid’s going down the route Zolf thinks he’s going down, that shit’s got to be stopped. 

Hamid turns to Zolf and he looks so... _lost._ Zolf hadn’t even noticed him slipping away. He can’t help but feel guilty about that. His insistence that they lay out plans to move forward can’t have helped matters. 

“Mr. Ceiling got it wrong the first time,” Hamid says calmly, and Zolf’s blood runs cold like water in the deep sea. “It made everything too perfect. So this time around it must’ve done the opposite.” 

“Hamid,” Zolf says. “We’re not in another illusion.” 

“We don’t know that.” 

“Yeah,” says Zolf. “We do.” 

“Well actually,” says Cel, “that’s a very interesting philosophical question.” 

“It’s not philosophy,” Zolf interrupts, before Cel can get too far. “Hamid, I know where you’re coming from. I’ve been there. It’s not... it’s not helpful.” 

“Have you _checked_ _?_ ” Hamid demands, and maybe he’s starting to come back, maybe not. “Have you actually gone back and checked?” 

“You saw the flaws with Mr. Ceiling’s world before. Things weren’t just too good, they weren’t _right_. They didn’t make sense. That friend of Sasha’s kept showin’ up. _This,_ " he gestures loosely at the room, “is not _that._ " 

Hamid frowns. He wrings his hands. Zolf hopes to the ends of the earth that he’s getting through. “Maybe,” he says, “Mr. Ceiling just got better at it. _And you can’t say,”_ he presses, before Zolf can protest, “that this world works the same way it did before we went in.” 

“Alright,” Zolf says carefully. “I’ll grant you that, but-” 

“You’re talking about what, two, three years ago?” Cel asks. “Cause the only thing that’s really changed in this part of the world is the weather. I know you’ve got a very Western-European sort of view of things, but _really,_ if you think about it-” 

“I’m sorry, Cel,” Hamid says. “But I’m not even positive _you_ exist.” 

“Now that _is_ a good point,” Cel says. “But I can assure you I have conducted thorough research to the best of my ability, and I almost certainly definitely exist.” 

Zolf needs to say something. Needs to get Hamid back. But hearing the arguments... it’s reminding him how hard they are to prove wrong. 

(Do a grief later. Do a damn existential crisis _later_.) 

He stares down at the list of places in front of him, places that almost certainly have useful information. The more he thinks, the more he can’t be positive any of them are really... real. 

He doesn’t write down Paris. He doesn’t. 

“Hamid,” Azu says, and she’s not asking for clarification for which Zolf is eternally grateful. Someone must’ve filled her in somewhere down the line. “Let’s say this _is_ still Mr. Ceiling. What could we do about it?” 

“Go back to Paris,” Hamid says immediately. 

“And?” 

“Go back to La Triomphe and find the control room and try it again.” 

“Nope,” Zolf says. It feels like an effort. “Paris burned.” 

“We just _think_ it did,” Hamid insists. 

“In this world, or fantasy, or whatever it is, _it burned._ We can’t go back.” Zolf’s chest feels brittle, like each breath he takes is cracking him apart from the inside out. Like if you hurled him in a lake, he’d shatter as he hit the surface, not sink. 

(They _didn’t_ see Paris burn. They only felt the heat from a distance. No. No no no. Do a crisis _later_.) 

“What good would it do to try again?” Azu asks carefully. “You still wouldn’t know if it was real afterwards.” 

“But-- but I’d go _back._ " Hamid looks to be near tears. Good. Better than being blank. “And everybody would be alive again. And I could still find you and things would go _differently._ Mr. Ceiling would know that a—a _tragedy_ wouldn’t work again.” 

Azu takes a deep breath, then another. Zolf finds himself matching her. It almost helps. _Paladins._ Then he sees that she’s holding back tears too. Just keeping herself calm. 

_Fuck._

"Right,” says Cel. “But. Here’s the thing. How do you know _that_ world would be any more real than _this_ one? Because if this Mr. Ceiling could make you believe that anything is real, you _could_ just be going through fake world after fake world, and is that really preferable to just deciding to accept one as the real one?” 

“I-- I don’t _care_ if it’s another simulation,” Hamid says, “as long as it’s a _better_ one.” 

Zolf can see lines deepening in Azu’s face as she considers this better world, considers Hamid starting from a place where she might not exist. Because Hamid can’t know he’d find her again. He _can’t_. 

Something wet lands on Zolf’s hand and he is this close to snapping at Poseidon for giving him another damn signal or something before he realizes that it’s him. He’s crying. He can’t do this. 

But he can’t fucking leave. 

“Do you think,” he snaps, as he pushes himself to his feet. Almost feels like he’s going to fast, careening up toward the ceiling, but he’s not. Everyone’s attention turns to him. “Do you really think that during those two years I never thought of this? Cause I did. Kept me up at night. _What if there’s a way to make this all go back._ That’s grief, innit? And you know what I came back to, every single time?” He hates this. “We needed all of us, back in Paris, to go through that door. All four of us. Simulation or not, everyone not here in this room? Is gone. Even if I could get to Paris, even if I could find the same spot under everything that’s been burned, either A) it wouldn’t work at all, cause there was only one of me, or B) it wouldn’t matter, cause I’d be the only one to go back." 

Hamid looks at him, he looks ill, and Zolf has a sick sense of vindication that something he said finally got through. He wipes his eyes again and sits down. And now he’s shaking too. He really can’t do this. 

(Zolf was the one who split the group up in the first place. If he hadn’t, maybe they could have— _No._ ) 

“Let’s say this _is_ a- a- a simulation,” Cel says loudly, which kind of breaks the moment, but Zolf can’t be mad about it. Takes some of the attention off him. “That means you’d be able to break it whenever, right? I mean, it’s been _years._ Either you can or you can’t. But maybe it’s _not_ a simulation, and it _is_ a world on fire, in which case it has been made pretty clear to me that we’ve got a lot of things to do and very little time to do them. So _then_ it becomes a matter of weighing the risks. Like, maybe, it’s better to try and do all the things we can do in _this_ world, just in case, and then go back to Paris or wherever _later_ , so if it doesn’t work at least we’ve got something.” 

Their reasoning is good. Zolf knows it is. 

It’s just that doing things in this world is so hard. 

It’s just that the pen in Zolf’s hand feels wrong, the hang of his clothes and the grip of his skin feel _wrong_ , and he can’t tell if that’s him or if it’s a real breakthrough in reality. It’s gotta be just him. Just him, drifting into the same false hope Hamid had fallen into. Just cause everything feels a little sideways, same way it did when Sasha was rushing him through Paris... No. 

“I- I see what you’re saying,” Hamid says. His voice quavers. “But it just- it just _hurts."_

He tucks his face into Azu’s shoulder, and the tears finally come. She wraps her arms around him, and Zolf knows, distantly, that Hamid has come back. 

“It does hurt,” Azu says gently. “But grief is a part of life. Any life. And in this life, Hamid, you’re not hurting alone. We’re here. I’m here.” And then, quieter, “don’t leave me. Hamid, please don’t leave me.” 

Hamid is too weepy and muffled for Zolf to understand, but the noises he make sound like an agreement. An apology. 

“Need air,” Zolf manages. He stands again and leaves for the porch, where he stares out at the rain. He’d thought he was done circling around this idea. Truth is, no matter how many ways you twisted it around, you never really knew. But that wasn’t-- that didn’t do him any good. That was just putting faith in Mr. Ceiling, instead of a god, to change things for reasons he didn’t understand. And Mr. Ceiling didn’t deserve that any more than Poseidon did. 

He has this. He has the rain. He has a job to do. 

(Can’t put any stake in the rain. Weather patterns are all wrong, maybe this rain is wrong too. Maybe it’s not real. Maybe none of this is.) 

He rests his head on his forearms. Still feels off. 

(Even if he can’t go back, wouldn’t it be _stupid_ not to try?) 

The door slides open and someone comes through and sits down next to him. “Mind if I join you?”Cel asks. “Don’t think I’m really needed in there.” 

Zolf shrugs. 

“You okay, bud?” 

It’s an effort to answer. “No.” 

“Fair enough. Do you wanna hear about the experiments I’ve done into proving my own existence? Not that there’s not more work to be done on the subject, but I find that sometimes looking at the available research can be a helpful way to avoid an existential crisis.” 

Zolf looks up and narrows his eyes. Cel comes into focus. Real? Hopefully. “How likely are you to go off on a tangent halfway through and end up talking about something completely unrelated to—to any of this?” 

They put on a considering look. “Statistically, I’m gonna have to go with a 99.99 some-other-number-of-nines probability that I am gonna end up somewhere you’d _never_ expect. There is always a _chance_ I’ll stay on topic _,_ but realistically--” 

“Good,” Zolf says. “That’s exactly what I—Please. Go ahead.” 

Cel takes a breath, and then they start talking. Zolf listens. As long as he follows them, he thinks, he can find his way back. 

Not... not _back_ back. Not back to Paris. 

But back to Japan, back with his team, which is as close as he’s gonna get. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.


End file.
